Breaking into the Bunker
by themodernteen
Summary: Ketch and an elite team are sent to search the Bunker while the Winchesters are off on a hunt, but surprise-Sam and Dean come home early. Ketch must last the night in the bunker with the Winchesters as he tries to make it till morning without getting caught.


**Here's a quick Supernatural fanfic! Hope you guys like it! Leave me a fav/follow/review!**

"Are you in position, Mr. Ketch," the British Man of Letters pressed the earpiece com and responded to his superior.

"In position, ma'am."

He was standing right outside of the Winchester bunker in Lebanon, Kansas. They're so called "fortress" was a sandcastle compared to their headquarters.

"Ready men," Ketch looked at his team. Three elite men trained for any sort of combat for every type of create-natural and supernatural alike.

They gave him sharp nods. The plan was to enter and gather intel on the brothers and their methods. Ketch didn't trust them, not a bit. They were gone now, the Brothers Moron off on some wild Wendigo case in Florida.

"Let's go," he hoisted his machine gun over his shoulder, his black uniform and bullet proof vest tight against his body as his team moved stealthily through the night.

"Boss, the door is steel, locked, and warded."

"Please," Ketch rolled his eyes, "blast the lock."

It took three minutes for the team to wire the small explosive and quickly get past the lock. They were organized, quick, and efficient. The foursome entered like a group of black panthers as Ketch motioned with discreet hand signals and divided the troops.

Charlie took the kitchen and garage.

Robert took the study and prison cells.

William took the big room and den.

Ketch took the bed rooms and the office.

He specially requested the bedrooms with a sinister smile. They were the most private area in anyone's lives, an expose of an individual, a material representation of their personality. He silently walked through the main room as his team members began their own tasks. His shadow glowered down the dimly lit halls, the hideous industrial decor of the bunker was disgusting. Typical Americans.

There was a series of wooden doors lined up against the cement walls, the Men of Letters emblem was stuck against each door. With a gloved hand he gingerly turned the knob of the first door in the line.

When Ketch opened the door, he savored in its eerie creak. The room was simple. A bed with a tan sheet and pillow, a modest shelf with a stack of books. When he approached the bookshelf, he noticed the faded, worn covers and pictures depicting ancient supernatural lore. From vampires, spirits, demons, and shape shifters, Ketch aimlessly flipped through the pages and scoffed, throwing the book back on the shelf. A little farther down was a small nightstand with an ancient looking radio that reminded him of the volatility of the American 1960s.

Ketch opened the closet door. It was a collection of drab grey, faded denim, scuffed brown shoes, and an excessive assortment of flannels. He spat and slammed the door shut before continuing to the rest of the room. There was a drawer neatly stacked with headphones, a map, a phone charger, a gym membership card (oh, please) and some photos. He took the images in his hand and looked through them meticulously. There were pictures of unfamiliar people: a man with a hideous and disgusting green and white hat with a flannel and stained white shirt. He looked to be in his fifties or sixties, but he held a shotgun in his hand like he had been holding it for countless years. Another photo had a young man with a long trench coat-that was the WInchester's little lap dog, the angel. Ketch rolled his eyes and threw the photos back after seeing some of pubescent Samuel and Dean from years before. Those scarring images seemed to have burned themselves into his eyes.

Above the bed was a small cross and a rifle, two contrasting images that gave him strange satisfaction. There was a handgun under the mattress, a sword in the desk drawer, a dagger under the pillow, a riffle in the closet, and an ax behind the toilet. That was mildly impressive.

The drawer was neatly organized, some cologne lined the wooden top along with an emergency duffel bag full of medical supplies, extra clothes, even more weapons, laptop, untraceable phones, and other essentials. The next grouping of pencils, papers, pens, and other sundry items kept the desk neat and tidy.

Ketch stood back in the doorway and took one last look at the bedroom. It was obviously Sam's.

The way it had a reserved demure to it, a certain modesty accompanied with sharp wit, intellectualism, and endurance. It was pitiful.

Ketch exited the room with a sneer and made his way down the hall towards the next room. He kicked open the second door and breathed it in, Dean Winchester's room.

It had the same bed as Sam's room, a dreadful beige, and an entire wall was stacked with an assortment of weaponry. All types of guns populated the wall, from handguns to rifles. It was just like any middle-aged American man to horde outdated weapons like they were treasured, sacred objects. There was a desk by the bed and the dryer was filled with old photographs similar to Samuel's. There were no books, but vintage records along with a rickety old record player in the corner. The closet was bursting with worn black shirts and another flood of hideous flannels. He couldn't stand it anymore and slammed the door shut as he exited the bedroom.

His findings: the Winchesters were pitiful, low-life American scum conforming to the drab culture and clinging onto the horrid past of the mid twentieth century. It was a wonder they were still alive.

"All right, men, time to gather and-"

A deep rumbling sound echoed through the bunker. He cocked his gun, his mind on high alert. His team tensed as well, all of them looking around for the source of the noise.

"Boys, what's that sound?"

"It's the garage!"

"Damn it, the Winchesters are home!"

Ketch cursed under his breath and growled. Of course they were home! Those blundering idiots probably couldn't find that blasted Wendigo and hauled home after a quick "good try" over bitter tasting American beer in some dingy bar.

"Okay, augmented plan!" he hissed, "split up and hide! Do not under any circumstances be seen! The Winchesters must not know we are here!"  
His men, bless them, understood. They stealthily broke ways and sprinted in opposite directions soundlessly as the muffled voices of Sam and Dean echoed through to the other rooms. Ketch clenched his teeth and hid in the main room. If he was going to hide from the Winchesters, he might as well gather more intel doing it.

The garage door opened and the sound of heavy boots and wrinkled flannels walked through the door.

"I think that chick at the bar really took a liking to ya, Sammy," Ketch rolled his eyes. He could practically feel that smug smile.

"I don't know, Dean," the younger one huffed, "I'm not really looking."

"Come on, when's the last time."

"Dude, ew, what?"

"Sam, I'm your brother. We can talk about this stuff."

"Maybe another night or when I'm too drunk to mind."

"I'll make a note of that."

Ketch rolled his eyes and had to resist the urge to exhale irritatedly.

He peaked his eyes from behind the curtain blocked by the enormously unnecessary telescope. Dean shuffled in, throwing his overnight bag on their desk with the glowing map…it probably made them feel _so_ important. Sam came in after a few minutes with two beers (are you kidding, _more_ beers?) he set them down on the desk and joined his brother across the table.

"Weird case, huh?" Sam took a sip of his beer.

"Yeah, I know, oddly simple. The Wendigo was practically begging to be killed."

"I wouldn't say that," Sam had a small smile on his lips, "I think we're just so used to having these enormous and overbearing problems on our soldiers that we're forgetting how we used to live our old lives."

"Our old lives," Dean huffed, "remember Yellow Eyes?"

 _Yellow Eyes,_ Ketch thought, _who's that? I want to hear this story…_

"Oh, yeah, old Yellow Eyes," Sam smiled sheepishly, "it seems so long ago."

"It seems like yesterday we were cruising with Bobby and Rufus to catch some Leviathans."

 _Leviathans? I don't think those hit England yet,_ Ketch noted.

"And now we're up to our necks in Lucifer bull crap again."

"Story of our lives…"

"Tell me about it," Dean grumbled.

Ketch was a patient man when he wanted to be. He wanted out targets for days, monsters creeping into the daylight from their dens, sure that they weren't being hunted. But him and his team were there, they waited and they killed. He took pride in his team's efficiency, they never complained and the triumph of a successful kill was as much reward as they needed So, waiting out two bumbling American hunters with a few beers in them would be easy.

Dean was gone first, his head slumped against the table as he rested on his arms. His third half-empty beer bottle was on the table next to him, condensation dripping from the glass rim. Sam was across the table from him, typing and researching away on his laptop. The time was ticking past 12:45 AM.

Samuel didn't have as many beers as his older brother, and he was still cognizant. The laptop light dimly lit his face in a wash of pale blue and he sometimes glanced at his brother. Once he took out his cameraphone and took a photo. Ketch rolled his eyes. It was passing 2:15 AM when he slowly started to see Sam's eyes start to droop, his eyes taking longer to reopen in between blinks. He smiled.

 _Almost there…_

Finally, Sam stretched, his long wingspan practically taking up the whole room. He shut his heated laptop screen and looked at the time on his phone, eyes widening at the late (or early hour). Sam trudged around the desk, grabbing Dean and his own beer bottles and disappeared into the kitchen for a moment. He hoped if one of his men was hiding in there, he would be okay but Ketch already knew he would. Plus, Sam was tired, it was late at night, and his alert was down because he thought he was "safe" in his own home.

"Dean," he heard Sam mumble as he nudged his brother's shoulder.

Dean lifted his head up, looking around with bleary eyes as he tried to grip the situation around him. It probably wasn't the first time he woke up in a strange place with strange people. His hand instinctively went to the back of his waistband where he most likely kept a weapon, the other hand gripped Sam's arm tightly as

"It's just me," Sam said nonchalantly, like he had said it thousands of times before.

"Sammy?"

His brother nodded.

"What time is it?"

"Late," he looked at his watch, "or early, one or the other."

"Are we on a case?"

"No," Sam laughed, "I think you've been dreaming."

Dean relaxed and dry washed his face before laughing tiredly, "All right, let's get to bed."

Sam collected his laptop and headed to the door, but veered back as he saw Dean's dirty duffel bag from their hunt earlier and picked it up. Dean shuffled past, barely taking notice. They systematically checked each lock on the doors meticulously and refreshed the warding before turning off the lights and disappearing to the bedrooms.

Ketch waited nearly an hour as he heard the bumping and shuffling from the bedrooms die down and the lamplights switch off. His trained muscles shifted from the position they had been holding for hours and he untangled himself from behind the telescope. With soundless footsteps he walked towards the desk with the glowing map. In fifteen minutes, his entire team sulked out of their hiding spots and gathered as instructed.

"Nice job, men," he applauded, "bit more intel and we're out of here. HQ didn't estimate they'd be back so soon, probably let the damn thing live. Typical American hunters."

His men laughed silently. After a few more instructions, they dispersed and continued their mission. Ketch wanted to see the bedrooms one more time…

He looked over his shoulder, his team didn't notice him and he quickly receded down the dark hall. The British Man of Letters remembered which room belonged to which Winchester and he mutely approached Sam's door first. There was no light peaking under the door and he silently turned the knob and entered. He stood still for a moment and waited. Sam's breathing was deep and even.

Sleep was very advantageous. Anything or anyone asleep was vulnerable. Their guard was down as their body recharged and it was perfect for hunters. He approached Sam, the dim light from the hallway peering through the cracked doorway gave him ample light to make his way through the bedroom. He studied Sam's face; when a person was asleep, you could see their true expression and character come to light. His features her soft, not hard and tense. It resembled that of an innocent child, yet the scars and marks on his rugged skin hinted at his countless scuffles with supernatural forces. His body was buff and tone, long legs were good for running, yet he wasn't limber and light on his feet. His muscular biceps let him infer he could deliver a good punch and his cracked, calloused knuckles pointed at the nearly infinite times he wielded a gun or knife or suitable weapon on occasion. All in all, Samuel Winchester was tall, built, athletic, strong, yet had a large heart. A potential weakness.

He left the room, making a mental note of the detail in his mind as he closed the door quietly. Sam didn't even shift.

Down the hall was Dean's bedroom and a mischievous smile played at his lips. This was going to be fun. He repeated the same procedures in entering the room as silent as possible and waited in the doorway for a moment as he heard Dean's even, heavy breathing. Dean was lying above his covers, wearing dark blue denim jeans, but he stripped himself of his flannel and was clad in a plain black t-shirt. His shoes were strewn across the floor messily and his duffel bag was parked by the doorway, where Sam left it. His expression differed from Samuel's in the Dean's face looked haggard and worn when he slept. Like years and years of stress, betrayal, pain, and weariness were piled all into one complexion that only revealed itself through the night after being suppressed all day. All in all, the Brothers Winchester, although close, were completely different from each other.

Dean was less thorough and organized, more conservative. Sam was slightly more liberal in his thought process, more prone to hear someone out than kill them right away. See, that's where the major difference lay-

 _Ring! Ring! Ring!_

Ketch felt his hairs rise and his breath hitch as Led Zeppelin's "Ramble On" started to blare from Dean's cellphone on the nightstand. Ketch dived to the floor instinctively, out of sight as Dean abruptly woke up, jolted by the ringtone. He looked around and soaked in his surroundings then glanced at his glowing blue phone. The older Winchester groaned and lay his head back as he blindly grasped for his phone. He cleared his throat and held the device against his ear.

"Hello?" he groaned sleepily. Dean listened for a few moments, Ketch not breathing all the while. Then he grunted a goodbye and threw the phone back, eyes still closed.

Ketch thought he went back to sleep when all of a sudden he froze again as Dean yelled groggily, "SAM!"

No answer from down the hall.

Dean tried a second time, "SAAAAAMMMMM!"

A second later and equally groggy response from his brother down the ball, "WHAT? _"_

"WARDING."

"DEAN, IT'S 3:30 IN THE MORNING."

Dean didn't move, not a muscle.

A few seconds later, Ketch heard a ruckus from Sam's room down the hall and the door open. He could hear Sam's annoyed sigh as he trudged through the hall. He hoped his men hid again to avoid the blundering, tall American hunter. There was some clamor in the main room as Ketch waited at the foot of Dean's bed. This mission kept getting stranger as the night droned on.

He heard heavy footsteps down the hall and Sam's bedroom door close once again after a few minutes. Dean was already asleep again, lightly snoring. He had to evacuate the area, Ketch couldn't risk another incident. He picked himself up to a crouch and crawled out of the bedroom silent and deadly. Samuel was back in his room asleep and he needed to extract his team from the perimeter.

By the big table, his team collected once again.

"Men, it's time to go. Did we collect our intel?" Ketch asked sternly.

"Nearly, sir," one of his mates whispered, "but what did the subject mean by 'warding?'"

Ketch opened his mouth to speak but suddenly there was a whoosh in the air and the sound of feet hitting the floor in the kitchen.

"Get down!" Ketch hissed. He dove for cover for the third time. His men did the same.

Nice shoes clacked against the cement and rounded the corner from the kitchen. A middle aged man with dark hair, a suit, piercing blue eyes, and a trench coat entered the big room. He loosened his tie, as if he was comfortable. How did he enter? His men searched the bunker up and down. Ketch recognized the man's features: he was the Winchester's angel lap dog. This night just got a whole lot wilder.

Castiel the Angel shed his trench coat and hung it on the metal coat rack in the corner. He was about to retreat down the hall when he stopped for a moment and turned around, cocking his ear. Ketch didn't even dare breath.

The angel's suspicion didn't subside but maybe his exhaustion was greater as he trudged down the hall and receded into one of the back bedrooms.

Ketch jogged up the metal stairs like a panther and stood at the doorway as his team assembled around him. The night was compromised, but his team was able to gather some proper data before unexpected occurrences. As they raced through the night and left the bunker, Ketch knew a few things were certain:

1\. The American hunters were messy and inefficient. They must be eradicated.

2\. Samuel might be able to be swayed into the British way, but Dean was not budging.

3\. Castiel had powers unmatched by any other supernatural being willing to ally with hunterkind. He must be captured and studied at once.

He would return, he would finish his intel gathering, and he would rid the world of Sam and Dean Winchester and their silly antics once and for all.

 **THE END**

 **I don't own any Supernatural content or material.**


End file.
